See You in the Piazza

by Frances Mayes

  At the restaurant, we’re greeted by a collection of carved Pinocchios, a passion of the chef-owner. His daughter, a dignified signora, greets us warmly, as if we’re old friends. After last night’s extravaganza, we resist the elaborate degustazione menu. Still the antipasti plates begin to roll. Fried frog legs, as well as batsoà, an ancient preparation of pig trotters boiled for hours then deboned (labor!), bathed in vinegar, breaded, and fried. The name is ironic, from bas de soie, silk stockings, along the line of the silk purse from a sow’s ear—and the humble feet are transformed. Another starter from deep in the tradition, frittata rognosa, is a flat frittata with cheese, sausage or salume, pancetta, onions, and lots of celery. What’s the rognosa? Mangy? “Something lost in translation,” Ed says. “I think it also means bumpy.”

  Following these delights, William only wants agnolotti, the ravioli-type pasta stuffed not with the usual spinach and ricotta but with three white meats: goose, chicken, and rabbit. Much to ponder on this traditional Piemontese menu. This is an inclusive cuisine—every part, no matter how interior, is utilized. The much-loved finanziera of Turin, William reminds me, includes everything from brains to testicles, even a rooster’s comb.

  The signora is happy to discuss the menu. Sliced goose liver scaloppine, little veal kidneys in Marsala with sweetbreads and hazelnut butter, and, to William’s astonishment, tapulone di asino. Donkey in a mince preparation—tapulone comes from a dialect word meaning “chopped.” The tough donkey meat must be long simmered in wine. This dish goes back, she tells us, to the founding of the town. A group of hungry pilgrims rested for the night and ate their own pack animal. Apparently, they woke the next morning in great clarity and decided to found Borgomanero on the spot.

  We know the raunchy wild salad puntarelle, and here is the catalogna we saw in the Torino market—a lettuce with a dandelion-shaped leaf on a long white stalk. Ed selects calamaretti, little squid-shaped pasta, served with squid. I order a filet of beef. The white cows of Piemonte are famous as the best beef in Italy. The chef sears the filet on either side then finishes it in the oven on a bed of aromatic hay and under a cloud of meringue. The signora presents it with a big smile, knowing I will be amazed at the toasty mound of meringue.

  “How does this work?” I ask.

  “The beef becomes very tender.” She rakes away the puffy cloud, just as you would the salt crust on a fish before serving. I’m intrigued although dubious that hay and egg white have great transformative powers, but it is the most meltingly tender beef I’ve ever tasted. Equally eccellente: the Cumot Nebbiolo d’Alba DOC, suggested by the signora, who knows a thing or two about wine.

  We don’t order dessert but it arrives anyway: a plate of little pastries, chocolates and meringues over vanilla gelato with a foamy zabaglione sauce. We manage. As we linger over coffee, we talk about the two extremes of local cooking we’ve experienced. Last night’s experimental, high-concept vegetable dinner and tonight’s deep-rooted presentation of papa-in-the-kitchen’s grand traditions of the area. Ed sips an Averna. “Let’s don’t decide which we like better. Let’s like both.”

  * * *

  ONLY THE THIRD breakfast at Castello Dal Pozzo and already the friendly waiter knows that William will have hot chocolate and that my cappuccino should be decaffeinated. He seems genuinely disappointed that we’re leaving. We are, too. Shouldn’t we have taken a swim out to the island?

  LA MORRA, BAROLO, CASTIGLIONE FALLETTO, SERRALUNGA D’ALBA, AND NOVELLO

  I know all too well the Piemontese gianduia, the heavenly marriage of chocolate and nocciola, hazelnut. We’re at the source—and what a lovely tree! Serrated heart-shaped leaves, and the forming nut wears a wrinkled tutu. In Barolo country, groves of hazelnut trees line the north faces of hills, where vineyards are not allowed to be planted. Grapes rule: Barolo is king.

  As we drive into the Langhe, the rollicking knolls—Langhe is dialect for hills—shine with brilliant green vineyards, every twig and leaf well tended. On higher hilltops, castle towns silhouette against the horizon. Tiny villages nestle in the dips of valleys, surrounded by regimented rows of nebbiolo grapes that will soon become the legendary Barolo or Barbaresco wines. We’re moving through mile after mile of landscape paintings.

  When guests arrive at my house bearing a bottle of Barolo, I am hoping dinner lives up to the drink. Barolo and its genteel first cousin, Barbaresco, are the crown jewels of Piemonte. We chose the well-located village of La Morra for exploring the area’s numerous castle towns and the wine centers. Three days. We think that might be the limit of wine-focused travel with our grandson. But he’s easy. Loves to explore, photograph, and, of course, eat. Three packed days, then we have a final night in Torino.

  * * *

  WE HAVE TO park outside town and roll in our bags to UVE Rooms and Wine Bar. Right away, the village entices us with small shops and enotece. You could hold the place in the palm of your hand. The main street rises to a park with panoramic views of the countryside. As we turn into the inn’s courtyard, I spot across the street Paesi Tuoi, a bookstore also emblazoned with La luna e i falò—both titles of Cesare Pavese novels. Someone here loves him.

  William checks into the floor below us. (I can’t get used to him on his own at fifteen.) He quickly unpacks, plugging in umpteen devices. Our room upstairs is luxurious, with Barolo-colored armchairs and sheer draperies. Arches in the middle of the room divide the sitting area from the bedroom. Contemporary, with a hit of glam. Outside the window, the façade of a church with bells that ring in the hours. I like staying right in the middle of the village. You can pop out for a walk or a coffee, or for a jaunt to the bookstore. Base camp established in the Langhe.

  * * *

  OUTSIDE PAESI TUOI, there’s a bench, with a couple of novels to read while you rest. Inside, I meet the owner and, of course, ask about the Pavese allusions: The Moon and the Bonfires and Your Countries. “Pavese was my uncle, the brother of my mother.” Incredible! All his books are here, plus a good selection of others. Some wall space is devoted to framed drawings. How wonderful to own a store like this.

  * * *

  SINCE WE WILL be driving a lot, I’m thankful for the surprise upgrade Avis gave us in Torino. The big Audi sedan makes the backseat—my fate—quite easy, while the front accommodates the long legs of Ed and William. Guidance off, map in glove compartment: We’re in ideal roaming country. That looks interesting; let’s take a left. And distances are short between towns. We stop first at a chapel that William spotted in the guidebook. Cappella del Barolo, painted by Sol LeWitt and David Tremlett, startles the landscape. On the Brunate vineyard land, a modest brick chapel built in 1914 became a playground for the Barolo-loving American and English artists, who painted wild stripes and curves of drastic primary colors inside and out. The ruined farmhouse nearby fascinates me more. William soon turns to photographing surrounding hills with clouds’ shadows racing across the glowing fields and a lilac scarf of fog at the horizon.

  Barolo, smaller than I expected, has one thing on its mind. Enotece with tastings in progress line the cobbled streets, and the castle at the end houses an engaging wine museum. Down in the keep, you can sample the immense range of local wines. The museum could have been dull but the designers keep exhibits dynamic with active displays and a minimum of pedagogy. One is a facsimile of a typical country kitchen, complete with life-size videos of a young chef and a home-cooking nonna talking from opposite sides of the room: the two generations learning from each other. Dioramas, a formal dining room, winemaking equipment, a churn of galleries—all charm us.

  Over a lunch at Rosso Barolo that is not as quick as we hoped—who’s in a hurry in Barolo?—we plot the rest of the day: popping in and out of more of the castle towns. How many can we see?

  The waiter recommends the tajarin con verdure dell’orto e basilico. We’re introduced to the favorite Piemontese pasta: tajarin is dialect for tagliolini, “little
cuts” of pasta resembling thin ribbons. Often served with the region’s famous white truffles or with mushrooms, the pasta with garden vegetables and basil tastes like summer. Tajarin is yellow, rich, with many more eggs than the usual pasta, and very tender. We peruse the classic Piemontese menu of pastas, tongue, snails, beef tartare, and boar. Ed and William want the cream of zucchini soup with tomato sorbet and the roasted octopus with chickpea cream. First (but not last) glass: the big, mouthy Barolo del Comune di Barolo.

  No dessert, but I can’t wait another minute to try the renowned local cheeses, especially the goat-milk robiola d’Alba. I often serve a robiola rolled inside sliced bresaola for an antipasto platter. This one is young and gooey, very delicate. The sweet Gorgonzola, on home ground, is unctuous, thickly rich. Castelmagno, which we haven’t had before, is a mostly cow’s-milk cheese, aged for one to five months, and is the oldest cheese around—going back to 1277. Crumbly and a bit grainy, it has a strong presence and depth of flavor. I can see a happy pairing with fig jam, a handful of walnuts, and a dark honey.

  Le Langhe invites wandering: Castiglione Falletto, Novello, Serralunga d’Alba.

  Castiglione Falletto, with massive medieval brick walls cornered with turrets where Rapunzel might let down her golden hair. Tucked into a corner of the castle, there’s an underground tasting room where local producers showcase their superb wines. From the church of San Lorenzo, long views of—what else?—vineyards spooling down the hills.

  Serralunga d’Alba’s castle silhouettes against the sky. Its three towers are all different: a graceful round, a short squat one, and a tall overlook. Rebuilt over an older castle, this one is late enough—fourteenth century—to show some Gothic influence. Frescoes and gardens inside. (Guided tours are available, but not today.) Colorful and well-kept houses line cobbled streets surrounding the castle. After lunch, when no one is out, the town seems to slip back into history.

  Besides producing powerful, structured Barolos, Serralunga also is known for Barolo Chinato, especially the one made by Cappellano vineyard, where it was invented in the 1800s by Giuseppe Cappellano. He was a pharmacist by trade, and the wine may have some salubrious effect, since one ingredient is said to be macerated quinine from cinchona bark. The recipe remains a secret. Enjoy this version of Barolo as an after-dinner digestivo, but pour over ice as an aperitivo or mix in cocktails and spritzes. We like to serve an after-dinner sip around the winter holidays because of its bittersweet, spicy clove and cardamom taste. It’s lovely with a little twist of orange peel and a plate of great chocolates from Piemonte.

  * * *

  NOVELLO—I LIKE ENTERING a town through a gated clock tower. Easy travel: Buzzing in and out of these villages, most with under a thousand inhabitants. Quick walk around, survey the views, onward. We’re really just absorbing the terrain and way of life. Castle, enoteca, winding streets no wider than paths, a shared history of ownership by a powerful medieval family, some lasting six hundred years. Chimneys! I love the distinctive small brick temples that cap the chimneys. Even Barolo wasn’t the least crowded; these lesser-known castle towns are uninterrupted by tourists.

  Lively Novello’s castello is the prettiest so far, though not nearly as old as most. Built over ruins of another, the neo-Gothic castle was only finished in 1880—yesterday, in Italian time—and the only one that looks livable. Most have no windows except at the highest level (higher than anyone could climb), but this late building was never in danger of marauders. It has a new life as Albergo Al Castello. I’d like to check in.

  The Chiesa di San Michele Arcangelo, instead, is seventeenth century with a huge dome and impressive fresco cycle. “How did they have something so fancy in such a small place?” William wonders.

  “Mystery of Italy,” says Ed.

  “Deep pockets and stranglehold of the Roman Catholic Church,” I add.

  * * *

  EARLY JULY DAYS. We get to see sunset across the vineyard, the raked light changing from clear to honey to amber, and then streaks of rose and cerulean. We double back to Barolo for dinner at Winebar Barolo Friends: bare tables, the art and wine cases creating a casual atmosphere. Nothing casual about the wine list. We dither, and Ed finally chooses Cordero di Montezemolo Barolo Monfalletto ’13, from a vineyard in La Morra. “It’s from vines that are between fifteen and fifty years old, on a property dating from 1340.”

  “Sounds romantic enough.” Still a bit young, the wine rims the glass with the characteristic clear brick color, while the body is deep garnet. Tannins, oh yes, but not harsh. If this wine were a man, he would not be slim, detached, and elegant. He would be a stocky powerhouse with a big laugh.

  * * *

  “IT’S AN ALL Barolo night,” William says, sipping his fizzy water. We’ve all opted for the risotto made with Acquerello rice and Barolo, then the stinco di vitello al Barolo. Acquerello is the rice, toasted and aged. I always laugh at the word stinco, which doesn’t sound good in English but means that tender cut of beef or pork, the shank.

  Just breathing in the scents of the wine is almost enough. The risotto, creamy and subtle, must be soul food to the Piemontese. Fall-off-the-bone beef. They get to eat like this all the time!

  ALBA, CHERASCO, SANTO STEFANO BELBO, AND NEIVE

  Alba, gentle word. Dawn. I’ve wanted to come here for many years. We’ve tried a couple of times to reserve for the divine October white truffle feasts but everything is always booked. Not today; hardly any tourists about. Alba, though only around thirty-two thousand inhabitants, seems like a real city, elegant brick, with open piazzas in the old centro, surrounded by cafés and blooming oleander. It’s hot. We do what we seldom do, just sit with coffees and merende (mid-morning snacks). There are churches and museums to see but still we talk, watch people, spread out the morning. Alba must be a fabulous place to live. The best wine and food, and obviously enlightened people who keep their town impeccable.

  I’ve read that the Saturday market branches into many streets. Even on Monday morning, bicycles stream by, women are intent on shopping, and aromas of pastry and bread exhale from open doorways. First, we visit the Cattedrale di San Lorenzo, Romanesque, from the early 1100s, but remodeled and shape-shifted a few times in the intervening years, including a front-and-center rose window opened in the nineteenth century. Added in 1512, fabulous marquetry choir stalls intrigue the three of us. Inlays of various woods tint the designs of plants, books, landscapes with villages, musical instruments, fruit baskets, and religious symbols. An awkward modern altar and throne chair and aggressive suspended lighting are intrusive and, to my eye, ugly.

  We pass stylish wine-tasting rooms, Cignetti for chocolates and confections (since 1878), good-looking clothing stores, and Franco Fedele, a high-end carpenter’s shop where I would want to have my bookcases made if I lived here. Just the way the tools are displayed in the window tells you a true artisan works inside. William buys a jar of Nutella, nostalgic childhood treat of every Italian. He wants to see if it tastes different in Alba, where it was invented.

  “Look up,” we keep saying. Medieval towers everywhere. Arcades and umbrellas: shade is necessary in summer. I love the Chiesa della Maddalena, a fantasy of brickwork and a wild frescoed dome with winged priests frolicking among the putti. William is more enchanted with the portal of San Domenico. Rounded bricks—sage, rose, coral—stacked into rows of columns frame the entry.

  Food dreamers come from everywhere to dine at Piazza Duomo. They’re closed, and besides we didn’t reserve months in advance. (Who does that?) Instead, we get to have lunch at La Piola, their more informal place right on the duomo piazza. Airy and open, the café couldn’t be more inviting. The name, in dialect, means “very local osteria.” The day’s menu posted on a chalkboard says casual, plates designed by American artists say hip; and quirky: two fun chandeliers of curved wire and pictures of birds, made by Kiki Smith. We love everything—squash flower soup, vitello tonnato, agnolotti filled
with Castelmagno cheese with black truffles and hazelnuts. We’ve neglected the white wines of Piemonte and rectify that with a glass of Ceretto Arneis, soft and soulful. The Ceretto vineyard family, art patrons and important winemakers, owns this restaurant as well as Piazza Duomo.

  Finally, the classic local dessert, bonèt (little cap), similar to a flan, but made with cocoa and crumbled amaretti cookies. This treat was born in the thirteenth century, although cocoa, a relatively new accoutrement to the dish, was added after the discovery of the Americas. Italy is where you taste time.

  * * *

  A SHORT DRIVE to Cherasco—what a surprise. Deserted during the pausa, elements of the town remind me of renaissance paintings of an ideal city. There’s also that strange emptiness of towns in cowboy movies—a place holding its breath—just before the bandits arrive. The one bird sounds like it’s chirping into a megaphone. Why the grand triumphal arch at the end of the wide via Vittorio Emanuele II? And the row of seigniorial palazzi with beautiful doors, the arcaded sidewalks like those in Torino? Castle, yes, all local towns have one. Ed and William want to sit outside a bar and have a gelato. I dash off to see the slender, brick Madonna del Popolo. On one side, there’s the Orto dei Padri Somaschi, a re-creation of a hortus conclusus, walled garden, of the Somaschi, a charitable order. The wooden boxed beds look modern but planted in them are the same flowers, herbs, and shrubs that have graced this place for centuries. On the other side of the church, the magnificent monastery has been converted into the pleasant-looking four-star Hotel Somaschi.